HLM – Chapter 45 Worth Tens of Millions

Wang Bo kept nodding as he listened, reassuring his parents that he wasn’t involved in a pyramid scheme. He explained that such things were imported from abroad and even if he wanted to do it now, he couldn’t possibly go overseas for it. What would that be, exporting just to re-import and export again?

As for where the money came from—easy to explain. He told them he was helping some classmates with import and export trade overseas. Foreigners were gullible and rich, easy to deal with.

This finally put his parents at ease. Wang Bo encouraged them to spend the money freely and to take good care of themselves in his absence. He told them he’d return after a while.

Though his parents missed him, when they heard he was planning to return, they disagreed. They told him to focus on his business. They knew how far New Zealand was from China, and just a round-trip ticket cost a lot of money.

After hanging up, Wang Bo boarded the helicopter to return to the town. Now that he had money in his pocket, he stood tall and proud. Upon returning, he would begin developing the town—starting with road construction. As the saying goes, “If you want to get rich, have more kids and build more roads.”

Just as the helicopter was about to take off, his phone suddenly rang. The two of them exchanged a glance, and then Charlie got mad. “I’ve told you several times—turn off your phone on the chopper! I need to use the radio!”

“That’s your ringtone, isn’t it?” Wang Bo pulled out his phone—the screen was black.

Charlie’s mouth twitched. He pulled out his phone, and sure enough, there was a call. “Huh, why are the Christie’s people calling again? A farewell call? That’s great service.”

He answered, but after listening for just a moment, his expression changed dramatically.

Wang Bo grew uneasy. “Don’t tell me there’s a problem with the box?”

Charlie turned off the helicopter blades and looked at Wang Bo. “Where’s that book, the Bay Psalm Book?”

Wang Bo pointed to the seat behind them. “It’s back there. Why?”

“It’s worth tens of millions. Tens of millions!” Charlie shouted. “Keep it safe!”

“Haha, it’s not April Fool’s Day today.” Wang Bo chuckled.

But a few minutes later, the news was confirmed—Charlie wasn’t joking, and it really wasn’t April Fool’s. If the book in Wang Bo’s hands was truly the one mentioned in the news—The Bay Psalm Book—then it was worth tens of millions. And the unit? U.S. dollars!

Wang Bo had mistranslated the title. “Bay Poetry Collection” was just a generic translation. The proper name that reflected its true identity was The Bay Psalm Book.

After receiving the news, Charlie had searched online. The most relevant news on Google was from a recent Sotheby’s autumn auction, where this book was bought by a Jewish tycoon for $14.16 million USD.

While it looked like an antique, it truly was one. The book was a collection of folk-style psalms translated from Hebrew, published in 1640 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It was the first printed book in American history!

Aside from the copy in Wang Bo’s hands, only eleven other copies were known to exist worldwide.

Eleven might not seem like a small number, but the book was widely regarded as the symbolic beginning of “American literature” and also a milestone in the history of global printing—hence its astronomical value.

As Charlie was explaining all this, Wang Bo interrupted him: “The beginning of global printing? Isn’t that the invention of movable type printing in our country?”

Charlie gave in. “Man, you’re seriously patriotic!”

“Of course! My heart remains with Han, even if I live in Cao’s camp!” Wang Bo declared.

“Traitor!”

“Say that again and I’ll hit you—you know my combat power.”

They got off the helicopter and waited at the five-star Green Olive Hotel for the Christie’s representatives. This time, instead of two experts, a dignified middle-aged white man arrived.

They were told that this man was Adams Georgetown, the president of Christie’s regional division for New Zealand and Australia. He managed Christie’s auction operations in the southern hemisphere.

Christie’s is one of the world’s two top auction houses, alongside Sotheby’s. Their auctions feature artworks, luxury watches, jewelry, automobiles, fine wine, and other high-end items from around the world. They have offices in 90 major cities and host regular auctions in 16 locations worldwide.

Most Christie’s auctions are held in the Northern Hemisphere. The Southern Hemisphere only has two fixed locations: São Paulo in Brazil, and Wellington, New Zealand—which Adams oversees.

After introductions, Adams politely greeted Wang Bo in Mandarin. Then he gave a signal, and the Green Olive Hotel promptly arranged a conference room for their discussion.

Adams had come specifically to inspect The Bay Psalm Book. He said, “This is such a stroke of luck. Today, our auction director noticed this psalm book in the photos Quincy took of the red box. He immediately called you. Otherwise, we would have missed out.”

He then glanced toward an elderly gentleman in his fifties or sixties. The man nodded and smiled—clearly, he was the auction director mentioned earlier. They had been introduced already: Gregory Lyle.

Wang Bo caught the implication: that he and Charlie didn’t understand how valuable the book was. And honestly, they didn’t. Who would’ve thought this worn little book could be worth over 14 million USD?

So Wang Bo had a favorable impression of the Christie’s team. At least they had called right away and honestly told him the book was valuable, rather than trying to scam him.

But goodwill was one thing—talking price was another. Isn’t there a saying in the West: “Business is business”?

On the way over, Wang Bo and Charlie had discussed it—they must maximize the value of this book. If it fetched a good price, the initial funds needed for town development would be covered.

Wang Bo then summoned all the acting skills he had accumulated over the years. He composed himself, hugged the psalm book to his chest, and solemnly said, “Mr. Georgetown…”

“Call me Adams. My friends all do. And now, you’re my friend too, young man.” The president smiled warmly. If he were from Sichuan, he might’ve called Wang Bo xiao gui by now.

Wang Bo corrected himself: “Alright, Adams. To be honest, I never thought about selling this psalm book. It’s the last memory my godfather left me…”

“Your godfather?” Adams asked, surprised.

A sorrowful expression crossed Wang Bo’s face. “Yes, my godfather—Sir Howard Roberts. This red box and this psalm book were his dearest treasures in life. Selling the red box was already a grave betrayal. I cannot sell the psalm book as well.”

What a performance. Charlie admired it silently. Wang Bo then shot him a look—it was time for Charlie to play his part.